


Dark Light

by Sparcina



Series: Gotham at Night [8]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: (no attempt is made), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence Season 4, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Awkward Sexual Situations, Blindness, Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff and Smut, Frotnambulism, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, Protective Jim, Requited Love, Sharing a Bed, Suicidal Thoughts, Topping from the Bottom, True Love, Whumptober 2019, Worship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-19
Updated: 2019-11-13
Packaged: 2020-12-23 22:03:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21088520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sparcina/pseuds/Sparcina
Summary: The dark comes in many forms, and not all of them are forgiving, even to those who live in the shadows. But light finds a way. Always.(Jim is his light. The only light in the perpetual night.)After an incident leaves Oswald blind, Jim offers him to stay at his apartment to recover.This new proximity gives rise to some complications.





	1. Darkness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pamdizzle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pamdizzle/gifts).

> This is a gift for pamdizzle, who wrote so many wonderful Gobblepot stories I got the urge to create some more content for this fandom.  
Pamdizzle, I made sure that some of Jim's fantasies about Oswald would feel *familiar* :)
> 
> Sometimes, I’m indifferent to my writing. Most of the time, I’m relatively satisfied, in a _I guess it could have been worse_ way.  
And on rare occasions, I feel pretty smug.  
Like now. (I started this fic one night and wrote for three hours straight. When I picked it up later, it continued to write itself, like magic)

_Oswald_

Most people believed that pain alone could bring a man to his knees.

Pain was nothing.

At most, it was an inconvenient hindrance. Anyone resilient enough, strong enough, could forge their way through it, and Oswald had bloody well learned to make do with the constant pain in his twisted leg. Oh, how he’d relished the final shove that had ended Fish Mooney’s life… Truly, it was just retribution for the pain he endured day and night, and while this final act of revenge hadn’t healed anything, he could recall at will the shock on that bitch’s face, and remind himself that he always came out on top. Very few people appreciated true cunning, and even those underestimated the scum living in the shadows, because the dark was a threat, an evolutionary enemy.

Oswald rather considered it a friend. 

He _thrived _in the shadows. All of his best-laid plans were hatched in the dark, in that quiet limbo between dusk and dawn when the boring masses wasted away in sleep and futile dreams. Oswald would never be tall or imposing physically, but in the dark he rose to tower over those who set to undermine him, and ended lives just as swiftly as his mother used to snuff candles around the apartment come nighttime.

He could vanish in the dark so easily. He could conceal himself from searching glances, cloak himself while he licked his wounds, safe until he was ready to be seen again. The dark was Oswald’s permanent home, his true fortress, a constant in a life spent adrift. He always thought better shrouded in the darkness, able to question his own existence without being questioned in turn, free to study the past, the present and the future side by side until the truth—his next step to take—acquired a distinguishable shape, unraveled piece by piece like the petals of the first rose in spring.

Dark, in truth, shed light on every question begging an answer.

So no, Oswald didn’t mind the dark at all. From the day he was born, he’d never been bothered by the guessing game the lack of light imposed on him. He may bump into a few obstacles he’d neglected to add to his mental map during the day may be slowed down as he ran away from the man with the bigger gun or towards that very same man with a rocket launcher, but no matter how often he fell, he always regained his footing. The dark energized him. It was his most loyal ally (no matter how often a little voice in his head whispered that there was another, flesh and blood, so very desirable, and completely unattainable). He could rely on it (on both, that little voice would say).

It always came back to him (they both did). Always.

Yet as Oswald came back to himself in the oldest church of the Narrows, as he pushed himself upwards on trembling hands and began to crawl, his nose full of the stench of smoke and his throat parched raw, his knees scraping against the stone floor, the dark didn’t reveal him anything. No hint no clue. Neither color nor shape. Not a single useful information…

… not even the fire so close to him that he scrambled back with a startled scream, rubbing frenetically the fabric of his sleeve against the floor to put out the flames. His eyes were wide open, frantically scanning his surroundings for threats, but everything was pitch black. He saw absolutely nothing.

Because there was nothing for him to see… wasn’t it?

And the panic bleeding through him, the certainty squeezing his chest into a tight vice, revealed that yes, even after all those years, darkness may still terrify him. 

“Oswald!”

*

_Jim_

Of course, he blamed himself for the fallout. He should have been able to disarm the bomb before it went off, should have prevented the fire that followed, the lives that were lost.

(The light that went out.)

Lucius had been feeding him frantic instructions through his earpiece, with Harvey urging him to move his ass in the background, and he’d been working as fast as humanly possible, ignoring the pain in his lower back as he made his best attempt at a pretzel to fit under the complicated structure holding the state-of-the-art, military-grade explosive device. He’d cut the right wire, he was sure of it (he’d tripled checked before pulling out his switchblade), but the timer hadn’t stopped, and he’d had to run away, because there was this kid frozen in fear just a few feet away.

He wouldn’t have run to save his own skin. He’d always been prone to put his own life on the line, and he knew that everyone who liked him (he could count them on the fingers of two hands at best) hated that urge he had to scarify himself. He knew that Harvey would tear him a new one when he got back to the precinct (being his boss hadn’t changed their dynamics _at all_), knew that Bruce and Alfred would team up in this, too.

Knew that someone else, under other circumstances, would have given him the earful of his life.

“Oswald!”

Jim had just returned to the ruins, the child safe in her mother’s arms. He hadn’t known Oswald would be around when he’d first stormed the old church to get at the bomb, but he was sure he’d seen him from afar.

And then the bomb had gone out. A part of the church still stood, but a huge chunk of it had collapsed…

…and Jim was absolutely sure that Oswald was still around.

Because of that scream.

He would recognize his voice anywhere.

“Oswald!”

The smoke was growing thicker. He yanked up his shirt and shouldered it off to press the bundle of fabric against the lower half of his face. Worry gnawed at him. There had only been one scream, and Oswald was _vocal_, hissing and spitting and cursing his way through life. Silence didn’t bode well.

The smoke thinned, and Jim lowered the tatters of his shirt, flinging them over one exposed shoulder. His gun was a comfortable weight at his waist, but it did nothing to appease his concern.

“Oswald!” he bellowed again.

Where was his goddamn phone when he needed it? The earpiece had been blown to pieces. His people were probably worried sick for him, but there was no way in hell he was leaving that old church without Oswald. They may not always see eye to eye (a polite euphemism), but there was nothing either of them did or didn’t do that kept the both of them from orbiting around each other. The tension between them was a live wire, and Jim had made his peace long ago with his desire to touch it, pull at it, curious of the sparks that would (and did) ignite.

He knew very well he shouldn’t play this game, but the temptation never faded, only strengthened over time, and as the search went on, as the seconds ticked by ominously, Jim could sense his worry give way to full-blown panic. He began to run, eyes darting from side to side, mentally going through every scenario…

When he saw him at last, he stopped dead in his tracks, stock still as he took in the extent of his failure.

Oswald was kneeling amidst the ruins, his velvet jacket torn and burnt, the collar of his white shirt underneath undone and smeared with blood, his pale hands red at the knuckles and probably burnt where he used them to guide himself on the floor. He was crawling when Jim barreled into this section of the building, but he’d stiffened since then, and jerked up his chin challengingly.

But he didn’t say a thing. Blood trailed down his right temple, dried higher up where his black hair was plastered to his brow. Dust and blood smeared his cheeks, and a clean cut seemed to part his lower lip in two. His breathing sounded ragged, his throat seemed more vulnerable than ever, too exposed in the angle his head was tilted, but Jim’s focus wasn’t on any of this, not anymore.

His eyes. Something was off.

As soon as Jim walked into a room where Oswald already was, blue eyes found his and held them, shrewd and full of mischief. Even with his back towards him, Oswald always _knew_.

Oswald wasn’t looking at him now. Jim could tell he was trying to, because the smaller man was more or less kneeling in his general direction with a searching frown, but his gaze was fixed on a point way off Jim’s body, many, many inches to his left.

The blue of his eyes, usually so very sharp and clear, was lost behind an opaque veil.

_Oh no_.


	2. Smoke

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check the new tags, please.

_Oswald _

He opened his eyes and saw nothing.

“Oswald.”

Jim’s voice. Oswald turned in that direction, disregarding the flaring pain in his leg and the general soreness of every muscle in his battered body. And blinked. Again, and again. Bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste the pang of copper he knew so intimately.

The darkness refused to fade.

“There’s light, isn’t there?”

A brief pause; for all his propensity to simply say what was on his mind, Jim could be really thoughtful at times.

Today, Oswald hated that thoughtfulness. He wasn’t fragile or in need of special care. He was not helpless.

He was just broken (a lot more than he used to be), and what had been broken could never be repaired.

Jim let out a soft cough. “There is.”

Oswald’s lips thinned to a bitter line. Jim had never used such a gentle voice with him before, and that just wouldn’t do. Snarling at his many handicaps, Oswald scrambled to a sitting position, allowing himself a single hiss of pain as he rooted around the pillow for the gun he always kept close at hand.

There was no gun.

(Of course there was no gun, _idiot_: Jim was here.)

“Where are we?” he inquired stiffly, nostrils flaring. “_Oh_.”

“I did clean recently,” Jim replied with a hint amusement that sounded forced.

Oswald took two handfuls of bed sheets and brought them to his nose, inhaling deeply. “It’s your laundry detergent.” Releasing the fabric, he tilted his head back and took another whiff for more information. Recently cooked meat, with not enough spices; chicken, or turkey. A cleaning agent he’d smelled before at one of his warehouses, too pungent for his taste, but then some things required more than bleach to vanish. The delicate smell of something familiar came last, fruity and warm with notes of honey, but Oswald parsed his excellent memory in vain for the correct label. “Among other things,” he added in a disgruntled tone. “We’re at your apartment.”

“Well, yes.” Jim shifted in his seat.

Oswald remembered how the other man looked like when he squirmed, how he himself enjoyed it to a ridiculous extent.

“You sort of threatened to cut my throat if I brought you back to your own place and left you alone.”

Oswald bunched his hands in the sheet, sitting straighter still. “You could have defended yourself, surely. I assume you still have that switchblade you stole from me.”

Oswald regretted those words as soon as they left his mouth, because here it went again: _pity_. He could feel the distasteful pang of it permeating the air.

So many smells, and nothing to see, nothing at all.

“Don’t,” he snapped hotly just as Jim was going to open his mouth (he heard that intake of breath, had been listening for it). “Don’t you dare pi-”

“I’m not pitying you,” Jim countered just as hotly, and the fierce rage within Oswald’s heart dimmed to a sickening burn. _Weak_. _Lies._ “You’re just as vicious as ever, which was why I _also _didn’t bring you to Gotham Central or the precinct. I did what I- what you suggested.”

Oswald refused to think of what else he might have been saying in his half-crazed state back at the church. Too much, like usual. Jim’s mere presence loosened his tongue like no one else could. “I _suggested_ your humble abode, then?” he sneered.

The various little tells of Jim shifting enforced the silence. Oswald exhales through his nostrils. He hadn’t meant to be so mean, didn’t want to, not… here, with Jim_._ He knew very well that Jim had done him a humongous favor that he could never hope to repay in kind, now that he… It didn’t matter. He should thank the good Captain and take his leave before he did that stupid thing he hadn’t done in years.

(Ask for help. And Jim would give it to him, too.)

Feeling incredibly clumsy and weak, just like he used to be, he made his way towards the edge of the bed and made to stand. Was Jim looking at him still, and if so, how? The desire to know ate as Oswald’s weakening confidence.

For once, the darkness’s guessing game felt like a blade to the throat.

“Where’s the bathroom?”

*

_Jim_

It was glaringly obvious that Oswald didn’t want his help. No elbow to steady him, no hand to hold onto, nothing more than clear-cut directions, and only once at that. Jim had always been in awe of Oswald’s excellent memory and perseverance… and the independence he treasured, intact even in the aftermath of his torture at Fish Mooney’s hands.

And now… Now Oswald needed help. And refused it, at every turn. He never asked, not even when the tiniest thing that would make his life easier. In the days that followed that first awkward morning, Jim had to swallow back half the words that wanted out, and resign himself to the fact that no matter how often he left the precinct early to get back home for Oswald, he was never needed, or rather, Oswald never let go of his pride.

And Jim had always been very protective, too much even, according to some of his exes. He couldn’t help it. His upbringing probably explained part of it, but mostly, he was this way because the world was a mad and vicious mess that needed people like him to not fall entirely into darkness. This protectiveness he felt at his core, behind his every motivation, was _required _of him, an obligation that he fulfilled with an enthusiasm that bordered on fanatism. The urge to defend and care was in his blood…

… and Oswald brought up those instincts like no one else could. His smaller built and delicate bone structure may justify Jim’s gut instinct to help, but Oswald was a mean son-of-a-bitch that could (and probably had) killed people twice as big as him with a butter knife, so there was more to it.

The trust Oswald seemed to place in him, of all people. To him, he revealed chinks in his armor like it was nothing, like Jim couldn’t use the knowledge to put holes into the fabric of his carefully crafted underworld. And Jim really couldn’t. He was utterly helpless when it came to his intentions towards Oswald. Sure, part of him (the cop, the detective, the _Captain_) thought it would be just and fair to lock the mobster up for a little while, but another part of him, stronger and passionate, knew very well that Oswald had never had it fair, ever.

(And Jim never questioned that part of himself, not when the need to shield Oswald from the darkest edges of the world stemmed from it.)

Nevertheless, Jim wouldn’t simply disregard Oswald’s wish to trip over his own feet, ridiculous as it may be. He’d respect his pride, watch him despondently as the other man hit his knees and stubbed his toes and cursed more in five minutes than Harvey did over the course of an entire day. He didn’t pity Oswald, never had. Compassion what was constricted his chest whenever Oswald persisted, probably unconsciously, in seeking out a visual aid that never came. 

Truth be told, Jim simply knew all too well what helplessness felt like. After all, he’d felt it very much when Commissioner Loeb had taken away his job.

Oswald had been the one to help him then. He’d pulled strings in the shadows and called in favors from people who surely belonged behind bars. Before he knew it, Jim was back at the precinct with his badge, and Loeb had left town for some much-needed ‘vacations’.

Oswald had helped him then, asking nothing in return, so why couldn’t Jim help him now?

Jim had zero problem dealing with an angry cat spitting at him from morning till evening. He could take it, would willingly let Oswald tear him apart if only he accepted the proffered hand. It pulled his heartstrings taut whenever Oswald shied away from his touch, whereas in the past, back when he wasn’t like this (so very vulnerable), the mobster had _welcomed_ every single way Jim had seen fit to invade his personal space. They’d manhandled each other, pushed and pulled like two magnets that couldn’t quite part, and it’d been truly intoxicating, how close Oswald had allowed Jim. How close Jim himself had wished to let Oswald.

Watching the mobster staring out the window with his gaze firmly turned inwards, sorrow lining his pale face, Jim wished he knew what to say.

*

_Oswald_

Pity and compassion were two distinct notions, but Oswald held on to his foolish pride and waited a solid two weeks before accepting that yes, Jim didn’t pity him. He’d had ample time to recall the numerous occasions Jim could have displayed such behavior and hadn't.

(Loyal to a fault. Reliable like no one in this city.)

“I’ll take that cup of coffee now,” he demanded one morning from the damning comfort of the bed.

He’d never thanked Jim for offering him a place to crash. It would probably cost him his career if someone found out that the Captain of the GCPD hid a dangerous criminal in his own apartment, and yet Jim had never suggested that Oswald leave. He cleaned the wounds on his face and arms when Oswald was too tired to protest (Jim had always been too clever for _his_ own good), and when Oswald could protest, he guided him through the task, never impatient, always very careful in the way he spoke and moved around him. By the end of the first week, Oswald could tell where every single wound and scar was by touch.

Jim’s, and his own.

“You can have mine.”

Oswald didn’t startle when a hand tugged at his wrist and pressed a hot mug against his palm. Sometimes, Jim forgot to make enough noise when he entered a room, but he never failed to guide his hand towards his goal.

Oswald was discovering Jim’s hands anew. They were big and strong, that much he’d gathered back in the day. (Their pressure could be exquisite against his throat, but that was another matter entirely.) They were heavily calloused, which proved in yet another way that Jim wasn’t afraid to handle himself whatever damn challenge life threw the city’s way. They were warm, too. Jim’s whole body radiated a tantalizing heat that permeated Oswald’s dreams whenever he could sleep, but his hands were the warmest. His palms felt rough against his face and hands, trailing down the shoulder now marred with a zigzagging scar, but their touch was gentler than it’d ever been, and Oswald decided to take a leap of faith for once. Allow himself a taste of that kindness. 

“Is it black?” he asked on the same tone most people said ‘thanks’.

Jim had the galls to chuckle. “Of course it is. Black for the wicked.”

Jim said the most ridiculous things, Oswald reflected as he brought the mug to his lips for a first sip, hoping in spite of himself that he could taste Jim on the fragile ceramic, if only the lingering heat of his mouth. Not that he kept moving the cup around to try and find that spot by himself. He wasn’t that infatuated.

(He really was, though.)

The rest of the day crawled by, boring and dauting like every day had been since that fateful bombing. Oswald lounged on the couch and reminisced on the past. When his leg started to bother him too much, he resolved to hunt down the pills Jim had pointed out to him last time. A good fifteen minutes ticked by before he finally returned with the small bottle.

(He’d found the pills after eight minutes at most, but he’d accidentally knocked sideways another container, and by the time he found it behind the door, uncapped it and smelled lube, he’d been so titillated by the fantasy taking shape in his mind that he’d forgotten all about the pain.)

The lock of the front door clicked a little before six. Oswald couldn’t tell for sure, but Jim always announced the time when he got home in the evening, and it was roughly around six these days. As the Captain of the GCPD, he was certainly entitled to leave whenever he wanted, but he also shouldered more responsibilities than ever, and Oswald was well aware that had Jim not be at home _helpless_, the other man would be returning much, much later.

(Jim’s concern warmed him to the core.)

(It wasn’t just shame from his pride in tatters.)

“Hey.”

Oswald waved in Jim’s vague direction. Jim mumbled something to himself (Oswald picked up the words _Harvey _and _file_) as he dropped his bag with a loud _thud_ and entered the kitchen.

Jim didn’t know how to cook water, but that didn’t stop him to try and come up with something edible in the evening. Oswald always ate without complaint, and if he always ate very little, it had nothing to do with the quality (or rather the lack thereof) of Jim’s cooking.

He knew what depression felt like. Hope was a beacon growing dimmer with every new day, and Oswald may thrive in darkness, he still needed light to _use _it to his best advantage. So he mopped around while Jim made the dishes, while Jim made everything, quietly listing all the different ways he could this uncomfortable situation before he became unbearable even to himself. There was not a single knife lying around, which was proof enough that Jim sensed the direction of his thoughts. Oswald supposed he could have told him that there were plenty of other weapons available to end a life, but he kept that fact for himself. Besides, he hadn't reached the bottom of the well just yet. Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot, kingpin of Gotham's underworld, had a long, _long _way to fall before death represented an active solution rather than a daily contemplation.

He supposed he could have taken up Jim's offer to talk, but the mere prospect of spilling his guts, even metaphorically, filled him with dread. Instead, he let Jim draw him his bath and pass him a change of clothes through the crack in the door in a silent apology. Jim didn't seem to mind the lack of thanks; he simply walked away and let Oswald steam away in peace for however long he wanted, gave him space and intimacy, the slightest illusion of power.

Jim was so kind overall that Oswald couldn’t help the way he snapped at him. He kept expecting Jim to grow angry and haul his ass out of his apartment as a result, but the angrier he got, the gentler Jim became. 

It was mind-wracking. 

It was _Jim._

In a parallel universe where he still had his sight, Oswald would have loved being pampered like that. He would have let Jim massage his bad leg without a single peep of protest, would have _thanked _him, even. Jim was dependable, caring and considerate…

… and yet all the good manners that'd cemented his stellar reputation citywide got tossed out the window at night.

Jim was a restless sleeper. He always started out the night on his half of the bed, lying on his back with both hands at his sides (they’d brushed against each other often enough for Oswald to picture him with 95% accuracy), but the polite, oh so careful stillness never lasted.

At first, Oswald thought that Jim merely sought to cuddle. He himself was not overly used to physical contact, touches laced with affection least of all, and the first few times Jim threw an arm around his waist to snuggle closer to him, he held his breath for as long as it took for Jim to sigh in contentment and settle. Oswald kept expecting Jim to return to his side of the bed as soon as he became aware of their respective positions.

It didn’t happen. Even when Jim left the bed in the early hours of the morning to answer a call, or drink water, or use the restroom, he came back to lay down with a grunt… and gravitated to Oswald well under ten minutes. The warmth of his ridiculously perfect body could have helped Oswald fall sleep, once it became clear that Jim, at least subconsciously, needed this position, _thrived _in Oswald’s close proximity.

Mostly, it wakened his dormant libido.

Jim’s dreams were roughly 25% percent nightmares and 75% erotic dreams. Oswald had taken to do maths whenever Jim entered a particularly hot crest, because there was no way in hell he was going to leave the bed to take care of his erection. He wouldn’t risk Jim waking up and finding out about what he’d been doing… taking away, in all probability, the only true pleasure Oswald had left.

Pleasure, torture; sometimes, it amounted to both. Oswald sure wished he could turn around and cup that hard cock poking at his lower back. He was not overly experienced in bed, but he knew how he liked to masturbate, and he’d devised so many ways he could touch the horny man plastered to his side… 

Did Jim like it fast, or slow? Did he prefer a firm grip from the get-go, or would Oswald get away with thumbing at his slit, spreading precum all over the sensitive glans until he, too, couldn’t bear to wait? Was he circumcised, or uncut? (_This _was a question Oswald could have the answer to if only Jim’s pyjama pants weren’t so bloody thick.) Would he come fast if Oswald did it right, or would Oswald get to take his time exploring every inch, torturing Jim with questions like _this, this feels good? _and _may I get a taste when you’re done fucking my fist?_

He’d never tasted semen, and he had no reason to think he would like it, even Jim’s, but he would give his right hand to get his mouth buried in Jim’s groin just once. What use was that limb to him if there wasn’t sight to direct it?

But he wouldn’t need his eyes to take Jim’s cock in his mouth. He didn’t need his sight to hollow his cheeks and fit as much of that throbbing length as he could. He’d expect to choke on it, to drool and gasp and moan all around the thick flesh, but he would make it good, would let Jim fuck his throat raw and fucking _love _it, because to have this intimacy, to have Jim surrender to him in this way, would be worth every lingering soreness. And the joy, the unbound pleasure. He would probably cream his pants like a teenager.

(Fuck.)

He may not be able to drink in the body that matched the voice anymore, might not be able to read Jim’s various expressions, but he still had his sense of smell, of touch, of _taste_, and God, all of those were sharper now, and the scent of Jim’s sweat drove him just a little wilder every night…

And then there was the way Jim rolled his hips in slow circles, pressing his dick against Oswald’s lower back, groaning and mumbling searing words like _so good, so tight, mine_.

The first time Oswald dared canting and angling his hips to nudge Jim’s cock between his buttocks, he’d had to squeeze the base of his cock and bit down his fist to stay sane. The sensation of Jim dragging his dick along the crack of his ass on every slow thrust was just too much stimulation for a body disaccustomed to constant arousal. And Jim didn’t merely try to bury his cock into Oswald’s clenching ass while he dreamt away (but never wasted away): he dug his nails in his side, breath hot and wet against his nape as he ground out words full of fire that sounded like promises, hinted of things that could but would never be, and never failed to fill Oswald with panic.

Panic that he wished for the sun to never rise again.

Panic that Jim would realize how his body betrayed him in his sleep and stop.

Panic that this was the hell he’d brought on to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... I'd apologize for this chapter being so sad, but that's how my muse meant for this story to go. Also, if you know me at all, you can expect things to get better (before they get worse again? :P)
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	3. Sparks

_Jim_

Sharing the bed shouldn’t have been an issue at all.

On the first night, Jim had offered Oswald to have it all for himself. The couch was comfortable; he’d bought it precisely for impromptu situations that required him to sleep away from his own bed. A vain gesture, it turned out, as Oswald had barely let him finish before demanding that he ‘stop this nonsense at once and get his ass into bed’.

Jim hadn’t put up a fight.

Perhaps he should have.

But he hadn’t. Nervous and giddy and a thousand other things at least, he’d burrowed under the covers on the side farther from the door. He’d left a solid two inches between Oswald’s body and his own, heart fluttering madly, feeling so fucking guilty of his relief that Oswald couldn’t see the flush burning his face and neck. Oswald Cobblepot was (and would probably always be) the single person in this city who managed to turn his inner world upside down without ever trying.

“Good night, Oswald.” He’d lain on his back, eyes wide open darting every so often in the other man’s direction. The mobster just looked so… peaceful when he let go of the anger eating at him. Younger, too, less… desperate. Jim ached to pull him in his arms and promise that he would find a way to give him back his sight. But he wasn’t stupid, or that daring, so he’d kept his hands to himself alongside that promise he didn’t know he could keep and shut his eyes closed. He’d listened to Oswald’s progressively slower breathing, as he’d fought to bottle up more of that _need_ the mobster so effortlessly stirred within him.

He tried to be a good man in all things. 

It just didn’t work so well when he was asleep.

He’d known he was prone to such dreams, of course. Sometimes, he wished he had more nightmares, and wasn’t that the stupidest hope he’d ever entertained? (No, not even close). He knew that after a stressful day (and most days spent fighting evil in Gotham City were nothing short of heavily stressful), he woke up screaming, tortured by twisted variations of his cases, and surely that was no better than, let’s say, what actually happened most nights since Oswald lived with him?

Since Oswald _lived with him_.

Even in his own head, it sounded ludicrous. They were not together, no matter how much a part of him ached to see how they would fit like this, sharing in secret a space that wasn’t citywide, leaving all their fights and job-related businesses at the door, spending time together without threats nor subterfuges, eating take-out while they watched news they already knew everything about, teasing each other over the silliest of things…

… making out on the couch, licking into each other’s mouths as they pushed back shirts and zipped down pants, knocking elbows as they reached for their partner’s–

Jim dug the heel of one palm into his eyes and swallowed back a sigh. He knew it was wrong, to let his body have free reign (even unconsciously) over Oswald’s and say _nothing_, but what was he supposed to say? _Sorry, Oswald, I can’t seem to help the way I’m basically fucking you through your clothes while I’m asleep. Oh, what I’m dreaming about? You, of course. _

It was always about Oswald. The dreams shifted, in the way two bodies could change positions and still find pleasure with each other’s, _in _each other’s, but the end result stayed the same. No matter how he dreamt of Oswald, he invariably woke up with one hand fisted in Oswald’s pyjama bottoms (his own set, which didn’t help at all), grinding his hips wantonly into his bedmate’s perky bottom.

If Oswald had been aware through any of… this, Jim was pretty sure he would have been defenestrated on the spot. But Oswald never woke up before him, it seemed. Jim always had the few seconds necessary to flee the room before he heard Oswald yawn and push back the sheets.

The dreams followed him into the bathroom, of course. He didn’t fight the arousal there, because its grip was so strong it muted the guilt. He’d turn the water on, kick off his pants, and get into the shower on shaky legs. He’d stand under the hot spray and close his eyes, picking up the fantasy where the dream had left off. He’d fuck into his fist fast and mercilessly as the Oswald of his imagination pounded into him from behind, whispering a heady mixture of praise and filth in his ear as Jim fucking _took _it.

Unless Oswald knelt at his feet, bad leg miraculously painless, all that wild black hair plastered to his brow and his eyes full of hunger, and mouthed at the head of his erection with an eager moan. He’d take his time tormenting him, and when Jim could bear it no more, he’d choke on his erection with sinful noises of delight, palming at his own dick and orgasming well before Jim could pulse in his tight, wet throat, and fill it with cum.

“Fuck.”

He’d stare at the white stripes of semen dripping down the stall, heart racing to the point of pain, and swear to himself that the next time he went to bed, nothing so untoward would happen.

It kept happening.

And the guilt kept returning.

As quietly as he could, Jim rolled to the edge of the bed and tiptoed out of the bedroom. Perhaps a walk would help clear his head.

But in his heart of hearts, he already knew he would go back to Oswald before the sun rose, and that it would happen again. Oh, he could live with that shame, so easily, if only Oswald lost that haunted look in his eyes.

He didn’t feel the cold as he walked aimlessly under the moonless sky.

*

Spending so much time in Jim’s presence, even when he himself wasn’t quite rooted in a body that had betrayed him one time too many, had obvious consequences that those nights spent in Jim’s arms only amplified.

Vivid, visceral fantasies.

He’d of course developed such fantasies well before that, but he was revisiting them one by one, adding details where it’d only been a blur of shapes and moans, a generic quickie that he’d made up during a boring meeting. Fantasies of James Gordon were permanent residents of his inner landscape, and they kept multiplying, sensual at times, downright _filthy _at others, and Oswald might have drowned in shame on top of the depression he so valiantly kept at bay (with _Jim’_s help, because ‘valiantly’ was never a word he could ascribe to himself), if Jim wasn’t just as helpless in his very own way, a plaything to his own urges as he rutted against Oswald night after night.

Oswald would like to pretend that he didn’t give a flying fuck if Jim dreamt of a bosomy blond, but the truth (always that whisper in his ear) just wouldn’t back off.

He wanted Jim to want _him_. The other man could never know how many sacrifices Oswald had performed in his name, the countless occasions he’d threatened his own organization to satisfy one of Jim’s requests. He’d made it appear effortlessly easy, because that was what Oswald did in broad daylight: wearing masks one on top of the other, and smiling for the camera. His smile that came from the bottom of his heart, the one that didn’t speak of knifing in the back, he reserved it for Jim, and deluded himself in believing that Jim was sometimes affected by that show or trust.

He knew that was Jim felt towards him stretched beyond indifference. He got a rise out of him so easily, even though Jim had learnt to shield himself. But the fact remained: he got under Jim’s skin just like Jim got under his, if not for the same reasons.

Jim could never know, of course, that he was the only person alive with whom Oswald actively _shared _his kingdom. His power. Everything that he owned, everything that he was.

Not that it mattered anymore.

“Oswald.”

He didn’t move from his spot on the couch. Was it six o’clock already? He hadn’t even heard the door. This could prove fatal. He should probably care that his survival instincts were all but withering in this increasingly familiar environment. Or snap at Jim, at the very least. He was feeling down and a little sick, but he refused to move, even to get his bad leg in a position that would relieve some of the pressure on his knee. He’d been told that his stubbornness would get him killed one day.

Honestly, he didn’t care at all right now.

(He just wanted to see what he could only get completely blind.)

(His life sucked so much.)

“Hey, you’re okay?”

Jim, closer.

(Oswald might have let him _too _close.)

“I thought we’d stopped with the pointless questioning,” he managed to get out.

Jim didn’t reply. Always so thoughtful, and it rubbed Oswald the wrong way, again. He knew how haunted he must look. Was Jim taking in the pitiful sight of him, reading the strain in his features, all but peeling away too thin layers of his pride and self-hate?

“What is it?” he asked impatiently.

“We should go for a walk.”

Oswald thought about it for a handful of seconds. Realized that yes, Jim really had said that, and he really, _really _didn’t care for that pleading note in his voice.

(Not in that context, thank you very much.)

“You may go; I’ll stay here.”

Jim stepped closer. Four steps. A stop. One more step. They were loud, designed to cue Oswald on his current position. And his smell… He always smelled so bloody good. Oswald’s lips thinned in self-reproach. God, he hated this… attraction, fascination, this… yes, no, not going there right now.

“Go, James,” he said tiredly, waving in the general direction of the door, the gesture as regal as he could make it. “I can tell how much you want to pace. Go use your cheap shoes outside. Chase some criminals. Lock up a few.”

“No.”

“No?” Oswald gripped the couch’s arm as anger surged through him. “_No_? Who are you trying to convince that you need me out of your sight, James? Me, or yourself?”

“What are you-”

“Oh, don’t ever start,” Oswald snarled, climbing to his feet with what he felt was an acceptable degree of his former grace. He jerked a finger towards the general area where Jim stood, feeling only slightly ridiculous as his eyes refused to settle, trading a piece of darkness for another. His failure to pin Jim down with a glare only fueled his rage. “You can’t possibly be satisfied with keeping an eye on me like that.” He laughed at the irony of this accusation. “You can’t _wait _to get rid of me, but no, you won’t admit it, because Gotham’s white knight couldn’t possibly let go an opportunity to shine some more-”

“Fuck you, Oswald.”

Jim didn’t scream, didn’t even raise his voice, but between one heartbeat and the next, he stormed Oswald’s breathing space, trapping his trembling hand (since when was he shaking?) in his own. Oswald stilled abruptly, his rage momentarily thawed by shock.

“Fuck you,” Jim repeated, and the words were calmer. Steadier and sadder. “I told you already: I do not pity you. And I have no intention of throwing you out unless you decide otherwise. You’re free to go, always, and I’m just as free to offer you a space here. In my home.”

Oswald huffed. He tried not to let Jim’s proximity mess with his feelings, but his comforting scent wafted to him all the same, and the warmth of his hands around his made him all funny inside, and there was the tempting matter of his mouth so close, too, another weapon aimed at his very last defenses. Jim was unraveling him thread by thread and he wasn’t even trying.

He tried to snatch his hand back, but Jim’s grip was strong. He hated how arousal broke through the haze of his rage at that resistance.

“I’m not some damsel in distress-”

“You’re my friend.”

That unsure tone rekindled Oswald’s anger. “How _convenient_, that you should use that word at long last, my dear old _friend_,” he spit.

The grip on his hand tightened, not quite painful, but close. Jim ground out his reply mere inches from his face, breath hot and slightly ragged.

“Whether you like the truth or not, Oswald, I only want to make you smile again.”

_You’re being ridiculous_, were the words on the tip of Oswald’s tongue. But Jim had pitched his voice lower, infused it with all the seriousness of the GCPD captain’s authority, and different words found their way out.

“And why is that?”

He heard how confused he sounded; a perfect match to the way he felt. Jim pulled him into his arms and Oswald fought him, but not really, even though Jim was close enough for both of them to hurt each other really bad in an array of vulnerable spots.

(Not all of them visible, or physical.)

Oswald gripped those broad shoulders and held on for dear life.

“It’s all my fault.”

The words were muffled against his neck, but Oswald heard them clearly. “What,” he said flatly.

“That you’re blind,” Jim said very, very softly, lips brushing against the top of his head. “If I’d managed to disarm that bomb-”

“Did you make it?”

Startled by the sharp tone, Jim went quiet for a few seconds. “No, but-”

“Did you activate it, then?”

Jim pulled back a little. “_No_, and you can’t possibly believe that I would be involved in-”

“Then how, pray tell, could I blame YOU for WHAT HAD HAPPENED TO ME?!”

The scream startled the hell out of him. It probably shocked Jim, too, because no answer or comment was forthcoming, and Jim always had something to say.

Oswald stepped back and pushed Jim away, aiming for the center of his chest. He missed by a few inches, but Jim stumbled back all the same, malleable. Weak.

(Jim was never weak.)

Oswald pinched his nose and focused on his breathing. In. Out. Stop screaming.

“What is your responsibility, however, is your tendency to wake me up rutting against my backside, James.”

The distraction worked perhaps _a little _too well, because the silence gained weight, and Jim stepped back further, as if he meant to flee. Oswald imagined his panicked expression, added a touch of blush to his cheeks. His lips would be parted on a lie that refused to take shape, his eyes wide and swarming with guilt.

Sighing, Oswald lifted one arm and crooked two fingers. “Come back here, James. In case you weren’t paying attention, I was merely stating the truth, not complaining.”

“… you were not?”

Oswald rolled his eyes. “If your behavior of the past nineteen days had annoyed me, you would have found out about it much sooner, trust me… You are one very horny man, James Gordon. I _felt _it.”

“Fuck.”

Oswald felt a genuine smile tug at the corner of his lips, and maybe that was why the outraged outburst he expected in answer to his teasing remark never came. His smile dimmed a little, but not so much that the playfulness he meant to inject in his next words wasn’t conveyed.

“Come back here before I change my mind.” He moved towards the sofa, approximately seven steps back, three to the left. The back of his knees hit the faux leather, and his belly did a few loops that lodged his heart in his throat.

“Change your mind about what?” Jim asked, voice closer and devoid of insecurities.

Oswald pulled at the hand Jim placed on top of his own, smiling wider at the gasp the sudden motion earned him. He felt backwards on the couch with Jim on top of him. His leg lanced him where Jim’s weight pressed it down, but Jim was a quick study and swiftly adjusted himself. Oswald stared at the darkness, picturing Jim, blue eyes and red lips, messy hair, right in the middle of nowhere. His scent was all he could smell.

And he could feel him all right. Jim was straddling him, hips just distant enough from Oswald’s own that their crotches didn’t press against each other.

That little fact annoyed the hell out of Oswald. And yet…

(Too close?)

“Oswald?”

“Must you talk quite that much, James? Actions speak louder than words.”

Hoping he wasn’t going to make a fool of himself by kissing, let’s say, Jim’s nose, he bridged the distance between them with an impatient _stay still _and hoped for the best.

He captured Jim’s lips on the first try.

It was happening. He couldn’t see Jim’s expression, couldn’t drink in all the emotions sparking to life in those beautiful eyes of his, but God, did he. _Feel_. _Everything._

The wetness of Jim’s lips as they parted. The hot warmth of his mouth, which he explored thoroughly, playful yet intent, years of pent-up desire seeping through the languid quest of his tongue. The silky, sensual twist of the tongue swirling around his. The rough stubble Jim hadn’t bothered to shave. The sharp sting of teeth pulling at his lower lip, a flash of pain brought about by too much enthusiasm that Jim quickly soothed with a languid lick, letting out a husky _oh God, Oswald_, before Oswald set to mouth alongside his proud jaw, tasting the skin, basking in the scent of sweat and arousal. The strong hands on his hips kept him still, but Oswald didn’t mind, not when Jim forgot himself long enough to set his weight down and pin him to the couch.

Jim’s cock was a hard, heady line pressing right into Oswald’s belly. And he was just as aroused.

“Fuck.”

“That’s the spirit, Captain,” Oswald crooned, and felt so light he almost forgot how dark the world truly was.

But he could never ignore for long all there was to see (nothingness, a void). Jim, of course, sensed the shift in mood immediately. Oswald felt a warm hand cup his cheek, and he basked into that grounding touch, propping himself on one elbow to feel more of it.

(To never let go.)

“Oz?”

That was new, Oswald reflected, struggling with the raw feeling in his chest. If it’d been anyone else, he would have gouged their eyes out.

Ha. Ha.

“Oz, I’m here, don’t go away.”

Oswald dug his nails in the warm skin of Jim’s shoulders, not able to put words on the fear building up within him. He’d thought he’d lost everything, but he’d just been offered something so precious he didn’t know anymore if he felt hateful or grateful. His skin itched, too tight all over. Wasn’t he the Penguin? What a pathetic bird, that couldn’t even fly…

“I thrived in the shadows,” he whispered, and the words sounded hollow, lifeless. Loud in the quietness of the living room.

He let Jim move him around until he was sitting in Jim’s lap, his face buried in the taller man's neck. Allowed the hand carding through his hair, wondering if Jim would cut it for him. Not that he cared about his appearance (he sure used to). But Jim liked to feel useful, and Oswald felt very useless.

But cherished.

His heart threatened to burst.

“What if it’s temporary?”

“Don’t.” Oswald pressed both hands over Jim’s mouth, a miracle in aim altogether. “Don’t give me hope, James Gordon. Don’t- Don’t make me hate you.”

What Jim gave him instead was a very gentle kiss that had no bloody right to taste so good.


	4. Glimmer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your enthusiasm :) This story means a lot to me (and so does your love).

_Oswald_

The first time it happened, he thought he’d gone mad.

(For real, this time.)

“James!”

It wasn’t panic that pitched his voice so high, and it wasn’t hope either; it was bewilderment, pure and simple.

“James!” he called again, and made to leave the bed…

… only to remember that Jim was at work and wouldn’t return anytime soon.

Oswald barreled into the living room with a record of one stubbed toe (Jim never quite learned to be tidy, to his utmost frustration), and picked up the phone he distinctly remembered putting down on the glass table in front of the television. The take-out boxes were gone, at least.

He pressed all the buttons in the correct order on the first try and pressed the phone to his right ear with a shaking hand. “Come on…”

The call went to voicemail.

Oswald threw the phone in the couch direction and stormed out of the room. Back in the bedroom, he sank down on the mattress and stared at the dark void surrounding him, waiting for the phenomenon to occur again. One time could be a trick. Two times would be harder to explain. Three times…

Unfortunately, no matter how hard he glared at his surroundings, there was only the dreary black of his new life, everywhere for him to see. A bland darkness that tasted like death, an open invitation he’d received from countless enemies, one he’d considered taking in the way some people wondered at what they would do with a billion dollars.

There was still only darkness.

Oswald forced his eyes wider still, searching the void with frantic determination. He didn’t know how long he spent like that, body almost forgotten in a random tense posed, seeking those grey edges he’d _thought _he’d seen earlier. His temples were pounding, his throat was parched, all of his guts were wrapped up Windsor-style, but he couldn’t stop, now if he wasn’t _sure_…

When the door slammed open, he didn’t react.

“Thirteen past four,” Jim announced breathlessly from the doorstep. “You called forty-five minutes ago. I came as soon as I could.”

“You didn’t have to,” Oswald gritted between his teeth.

Soon, a warm hand landed on his shoulder. “Talk to me.”

Oswald sighed, a mixture of relief and frustration, as Jim set to work out the tension in his shoulders. The other man smelled like sweat, but saltier than usual, more pungent, and of a very peculiar brand of smoke that Oswald would always associate with a church in the Narrows.

He didn’t ask.

(Didn’t want to fight, not now, not if-)

The words escaped the confines of his dry mouth.

“I saw- I _thought _I saw… something.”

Jim didn’t reply at once. Instead, he settled behind Oswald on the bed, possibly kneeling, and set to work on his back.

Oswald hadn’t realized how wound up he’d been until those clever fingers pressed into a knot in his right shoulder. He sagged, and Jim was right there behind him, a steady line of warmth against which Oswald could lean.

(Always reliable.)

“Oh…”

Jim worked out the kinks in his shoulders with even more purpose than before, and Oswald heard a helpless moan that ought to be his, if only by process of elimination. Another breathless sound was punched out of him as Jim’s thumb rolled over that sensitive area prone to tension at the junction of his neck and left shoulder.

Jim went for it again as he spoke up. “That’s wonderful news, Oz.”

Oswald tried to relax further as the massage went on, but he felt all twisted up in places Jim couldn’t reach. How was he supposed to relax when he doubted what he’d seen? He had to make sure that he hadn’t hallucinated, because that hope kept teasing him, and he couldn’t host it again if it meant the crush of-

Jim’s hands moved to his temples, his fingers’ touch light and soothing.

“Close them, Oz, before you give yourself a worse headache,” he chided warmly, forefingers rubbing at the skin. “If your body heals, it’ll do so at its own rhythm.”

The hands stilled. A moment later, Jim was kneeling on the other side of him; Oswald knew it because he had his hands on Jim’s shoulders and was nuzzling at his neck, pretending that he wasn’t a hair’s bread away from breaking to pieces. He darted out his tongue and licked a wide strip of skin, relishing the taste of Jim’s salty, masculine musk, savoring the moan he was offered in return. He would treasure both later, when-

God, he would give _everything _to live wrapped up in Jim’s warmth, his kindness, just for a little while longer.

Life wasn’t fair.

“Hey, I’m not going anywhere, okay?”

Jim tilted his head to the side and pressed his face to Oswald’s neck, startling a gasp that quickly morphed into a whimper as an open-mouthed kiss was applied straight over his pulse point. He didn’t stop there: his lips traveled lower, trailing across his collarbone in a line of sparks. Jim’s hands were hot iron where they rubbed at his sides through the cheap fabric of his shirt.

Oswald didn’t even know what color it was.

“How is it-” His voice broke pathetically. He cleared his throat, reaching down between Jim’s shoulder blades to touch the knobs of his spine, counting the distinct bumps. “… that you always know what I’m thinking- what I bloody _need_-”

A thumb ghosted over his bottom lip, quickly followed by a tongue, a flash of wetness that seemed to reach deep within him, where the broken tatters of his will were knitting themselves back together.

“Because I stopped looking at you with my eyes.” Jim’s lips brushed his right cheek. “There is so much you show in what you say, and so very much you tell without actually using words. I’m in love with the script you hold so close to your heart I can only work out the edges of the man you truly are. But I can play that guessing game for however long it takes, Oswald, because you’re worth it.”

(Worth it.)

Oswald had never tried so hard to parse Jim’s words for a second meaning. His heart fluttered like a small bird’s, too fast, too hard as he shook from the inside out. He couldn’t seem to breathe past the lump in his throat, he needed- “Are you- What are you-”

“I love you, you idiot.”

(I LOVE YOU.)

(Jim loved him.)

(Idiot.)

He knew his mouth was hanging open, his eyes bulging out of his orbits, useless as though they may be, and he probably looked all kinds of ridiculous, but Jim didn’t laugh, didn’t say anything to break the spell he’d cast so unexpectedly. Oswald stared at the darkness, willing Jim, his _light_, to wipe it all away. He’d always thought of Jim as white, the yin to his yang (his own dark ventures). One couldn’t live without the other.

The bitter taste he’d had in the back of his mouth for days was suddenly gone.

“Then you’re a moron,” he replied bitterly, because apparently, _I love you_ _too_ were a combination of words beyond him.

“_Your_ moron, I hope,” Jim had the galls to reply. (The courage to read the script shrouded in illusions, just like he’d said.)

Oswald grabbed whatever part of the handsome face he could reach and slammed their mouths together. The kiss was a mess of teeth and tongue, groans and gasps and too much saliva, too little oxygen, but Jim held on to him just a fiercely and gave back as much as he got. The words themselves didn’t matter so much. Surely Jim knew by now. Oswald’s feelings for him must be staring at him every time Oswald’s face was turned in his direction. Even without a gaze, without the famed mirror to the soul… Jim was the cleverest detective in Gotham, and now he was the most formidable Captain the city would ever know. He _had _to know.

Still, Oswald didn’t like the pang of failure somewhere amongst the many knots in his chest and dared himself to gave it another try.

“You’re the moron I love, yes,” he managed as Jim’s mouth worked at his neck.

Jim’s head moved up, and Oswald felt the graze of teeth on the lobe of one ear. “Keep them closed, I said.”

Oswald swapped at him as he scrunched his nose. Jim, the sneaky bastard, trapped his wrist and turned it around, brushing his wet lips over the bouquet of veins Oswald knew stood out sharply against his pale skin.

(I love you so much.)

He settled for something not quite so intimidating, although he was very much aware of how foolish it was to erect walls where there was no ground to support them.

“You like to give orders, don’t you, _Captain Gordon_?”

Without a warning, Jim pressed him against the pillows and proceeded to plunder his mouth in the filthiest kiss Oswald had experienced yet.

He let Jim have at him.


	5. Fireworks

_Jim_

The second time it happened, Jim was right here.

More precisely, he was slowly coming back to himself, one hand clutching Oswald’s hip… and he was rocking quite insistently against the other man's backside.

The throaty moans were his.

“Shit, I’m sorry.”

Oswald’s hand snatched his wrist, preventing him from backing away. “I thought I made it clear that I didn’t mind,” he said, and while his voice sounded a little rough, the words were quite gentle.

“Well…” Jim scratched the back of his neck, relief waring with embarrassment, and a touch of uncertainty. He felt a little faint from hunger, and he knew it wasn’t the kind that could be sated with a hearty breakfast, but assuming wasn't his style. “The way I see it," he started, each word slow and careful, "‘I don’t mind’ is not exactly enthusiastic cons-”

Oswald rolled onto his other side, which brought them chest to chest. “I cordially invite you to have sex with me, you moron, so be a dear and don’t leave the bed just yet.”

“Oh,” was Jim’s very clever answer.

Heart picking up speed, he searched Oswald’s face, taking in the pink cheeks and the slightly parted lips, seeking out a confirmation that he hadn’t imagined the intent behind those words, a desire matching his own.

Oswald’s eyes met him dead-on and held them.

Jim hesitated only a moment. “Oswald?” Hope strained his voice. “Is it… happening again?”

“Yes.” A hint of vulnerability, before Oswald locked it up and tossed the key. “Give me a kiss.”

Oswald would talk when he was ready, Jim reminded himself as he leaned in for a first taste of his lover’s mouth. A satisfied moan escaped him as those perfect lips parted for him. Sliding his tongue inside, he licked those various notes making up Oswald’s taste, replacing it with his own. Oswald didn’t seem to mind his morning breath, kissing him with his usual ravenousness, so Jim decided not to let self-consciousness bother him and deepened the kiss just the way Oswald liked it.

“It’s…” Oswald licked at the string of saliva linking their mouths, a distracted probing of tongue that would have been alluring had frustration not darkened his features. “There’s definitely grey. And…” His throat bobbed, and the hand gripping the back of Jim’s hand squeezed hard. “I can… discern a shape.” His eyes widened, and his lips parted in shock. “I can see the shape of your face, James!”

Jim didn’t know what to say.

(There were many things he ached to say, words already there on the tip of his tongue, but he wasn’t sure how to handle that fragile hope in Oswald’s voice without crushing it.)

“James?”

“Yes?”

“Would you…” Oswald pressed their brows together, the words a fragile whisper in the tense air between them. “Just hold me for a little while? And don’t say anything stupid.”

James heaved a relieved sigh. “I can do that.”

Oswald huffed and mumbled something vaguely insulting, which Jim chose to interpret as a good sign. He was beginning to suspect that Oswald loved to be hugged like this, cocooned in Jim’s bigger arms, but being the prideful little minx that he was, he did his best to deny himself.

Jim would much rather indulge him, and it wasn't all selflessness.

“I love holding you like this,” he said instead of all the advice he could have offered in vain. “It makes me feel… safe.”

“Really, James?” Oswald’s tone didn’t quite make it all the way to mocking. “I’m the one being held, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“There are different ways to feel safe, Oz.”

Oswald buried his face in the crook of his shoulder. Jim waited for the storm to pass, or for the next explosion of temper; unpredictable and passionate were accurate descriptors of Oswald’s character. Probably saved his life more than once.

Oswald’s fingers dug into his shoulders, and his whole body became rigid.

“Hey, it’s okay.”

The lack of sneer immediately set the alarm bells ringing. “Oz…” He pulled back slowly, every motion designed to sooth the man now shaking in his arms. The finger he used to tilt Oswald’s head up was a mere suggestion, but up went the pointy chin anyway, easily, too easily…

Oswald was crying. Quietly, shaking all over. Tears trickled down his cheeks, a wet slash of anguish across those prominent cheekbones Jim so loved to kiss. A few droplets made it to the hollow of his throat, chasing each other on the pale skin.

Jim had never seen him cry: not after Fish had broken his leg, not even when he’d held the lifeless body of his mother. Oswald probably bottled everything up until he was all but ready to implode. When was the last time he’d allowed himself to simply _feel_?

He pressed his hands on each side of Oswald’s face, thumbs gently wiping the twin flow of tears. The other man tried to pry himself away, to evade the scrutiny he no doubt could sense, but Jim held on to him. “Don’t try to deny yourself, Oz. There is no shame in this. Shh…”

After several seconds of angry squirming, Oswald settled down with a snarl. “Would-” His throat clicked as he swallowed. “Would you ever have carved for me such a precious place in your life had I not needed you so keenly I had to refuse your every attempt at kindness?”

_Oh, Oswald_, was Jim’s first thought, and his gut reaction was to kiss these insecurities away, so he did, pouring all of his affection into the steady pressure of his lips, the soft glide of his tongue. Words followed soon after, each one chosen carefully to build the best argument possible. “This place has been there for a while now. Yours. You just had to claim it, Oz.”

A teeny-tiny laugh bubbled through the mobster’s tears. Smiling sadly, Jim leaned forward and pressed his lips to a warm cheek. He kissed the tears with single-minded focus, whispering sweet nothings that had Oswald snorting in pretend scorn. And when the only wetness remaining on Oswald’s face was his own saliva, Jim pulled back, squeezing those delicate shoulders.

A gasp spilled from his lips. “Your eyes.”

“What?!”

Jim was quick to reassure him. “It’s okay, baby, it’s just- Your eyes aren’t so opaque anymore, I can see the blue irises-”

“Did you just call me _baby_?”

Jim blinked. Rewound that question a few times. “Of all the things I’ve just said, this is what caught your attention?”

“I can bloody well _see_ that my sight is coming back, you idiot.”

Jim barked out a laugh and leaned in to nip at Oswald’s lip. His lover could call him names all he wanted; Jim could hear the difference when those words were thrown his way, and really, that ‘idiot’ sounded too affectionate to sting at all. Oswald was hopeful again.

Happiness must be just around the corner.

“So…” With Oswald’s taste fresh in his mouth and the wetness of his lips lingering on his own, he was reminded of his earlier hunger. He mouthed at Oswald’s earlobe, grinning wolfishly at the shudder sizzling through his lover’s body. “What _do_ you like, baby?”

“Fuck you.”

“That can be arranged.”

Oswald turned red so fast Jim almost felt guilty. If the look wasn’t so fetching… “Oz?”

Oswald extricated himself from their tangled limbs and resumed his earlier position, his back to Jim. “Just do what you did earlier in your sleep, all right?”

And without further ado, he yanked down his pyjama bottoms.

Jim’s jaw dropped. There was certainly nothing elegant in the way Oswald was divesting himself of his only piece of clothing, but Jim couldn’t care less. As a matter of fact, he couldn’t recall a single striptease that had turned him on as much as Oswald writhing in his bed and kicking out his pants with an aggravated sigh. He couldn’t imagine anything more inviting than Oswald lying naked on his side, a bewitching line of pale skin, a feast for his senses in disarray.

Jim pushed himself up on one elbow and drank in the pale scars and more recent marks from the bombing. Red, pink, white. He wanted to taste all of those colors, learn their texture in minute details. The yearning to drag his tongue over the mounts and valleys of such beguiling landscape, to taste the salt and sweat while his hands roamed free over flushing patches of skin, grew steadily until the spell brought about by Oswald’s sudden nakedness broke, leaving Jim free to press his front to his lover’s back once he'd gotten rid of his own pyjama pants.

“God, I love your ass,” he grunted, smiling at the embarrassed squeal that comment earned him. He got a better handful of Oswald’s pert bottom and squeezed, kneading the lovely, shapely buttock with possessive affection. “You fit my hand so well, fuck.” For good measure, he ground his throbbing cock into the soft skin between Oswald's ass cheeks. The need to bury himself to the hilt in the heat so close by, to feel Oswald _possess _him this way, gnawed at him something fierce. “Goddamn it, Oz." He rubbed his nose in silky black strands, breathing ragged. "You’re making me crazy.”

Oswald rocked back against his cock with a choked gasp. “I want _that_ in me.”

The words set Jim’s mind ablaze, but Oswald was far from done: he reached for Jim’s cock and guided the glistening tip to his crack, teasing himself (and driving Jim madder in the process). The throaty moans he let out as the cockhead pressed into his rim only strengthened Jim’s resolve to make him see stars.

Or a whole universe, should Oswald ever allow Jim to edge him into a series of mind-blowing orgasms.

“God, Oz,” he panted, nudging a leg between Oswald’s thighs, cock throbbing where it slid back and forth along that lovely crack. “We need lube-”

“I-_Ah_, I knew there was a reason Gotham’s in awe of your detecting skills.”

Jim grazed his teeth over the smaller man’s shoulder in retaliation, but soon enough Oswald was frustratingly out of reach. Jim kissed and licked him with eyes only as the mobster rooted around the nightstand drawer for lube, and if part of him wondered how Oswald knew where to find it, he was mostly focused on what was yet to come. He felt almost feverish with the need to ruin this man for anyone else, to wring so much pleasure from his body that his mind would go quiet for a while, free of all the anger and fear that clogged it.

“Give me your hand.”

Jim complied immediately, and was rewarded by Oswald lathering two of his fingers with lube. The way Oswald coated them liberally, fist pumping around the digits, hinted at something else he could have done with that hand, and Jim choked on his own spit, watching raptly as Oswald mimicked fucking while sitting back on his heels, legs parted enticingly, milky-white thighs begging to be marked.

“Tell me, Oz.” His free hand turned white-knuckled in the sheets; that was how hard it was to just keep still and let Oswald set the pace. “How would you like to-”

He didn’t know what he’d expected, but it certainly wasn’t for Oswald to grip his wrist and guide one slick digit to his own entrance, _shoving it in_.

Jim let out an inarticulate sound of rapture. He couldn’t remember a single person being so eager for his touch. Blood rushed anew to his groin as Oswald bit out a throaty gasp, back arching into a perfect bow. “Slow down,” he rasped. Oswald was so very, very tight, almost like-

Oh God. When had Oswald last done this? What if he’d never-

“Oz, I'm serious, you’re going to hurt yourself-”

“I want you inside me,” Oswald ground out, face flushed the most delicious shade of red. “I don’t want to wait any longer.”

“Fuck.” Jim released the sheets and brought one hand to Oswald’s hip. “I want nothing more than to make love to you, Oz,” he said at last, no, _pleaded_. “I really do-”

“Then give it to me,” Oswald hissed, hips stuttering as he fought for control over Jim's hand between his thighs. “There is hardly any pain.”

“Your leg-”

“My leg pains me more on a good day then three of your fingers ever will,” Oswald snapped back. “Stop holding back. I- It feels good.” He must sense his skepticism, because he added with a wicked smile, “Not quite pleasurable just yet, not in a physical sense anyway.”

“Then-”

“Even if there was no pleasure to be had from this, James…” Oswald folded his body over his and rubbed his pointy nose against the shell of his ear. “I’d still ache for that sensation of fullness your finger already promises. I’d still do this-”

Oswald didn’t lift his hips: he merely took advantage of Jim’s surprise to pull the single digit out, letting the pad rest against his fluttering hole, and then press it back inside. His appreciative moan had Jim repeat the motion on his own without thinking, completely entranced by the dark-haired man above him taking what he wanted, how he wanted it.

“I’d still beg for it,” Oswald insisted, voice pitched low and seductive. “And you’d give it to me then, to make me happy.”

“Fuck.” Oswald wasn’t playing fair, using the word happy like the weapon it was, knowing how much Jim had been torn over his depression. And that thing about begging, well… “You don’t need to beg,” he growled, and felt a rush of something fierce and possessive, slightly dark, when Oswald’s skin broke into goosebumps and he tilted his head in a silent invitation to bite down. Jim lapped at the sweat over his pulse point, relishing the tremors going through Oswald’s body as he fingered him almost lazily. When he sank his teeth into smooth skin at last, that hot channel clenched down around his digit. God... Oswald could have asked anything of him in that moment, and he would have done it, consequences be damned. “You don’t- don’t need to beg,” he promised, licking almost apologetically at the bite mark while massaging his lover’s wet pucker. “I’ll give you what you want, everything- Fuck, Oz, I’m going to give you so much pleasure…”

“Then fuck me now.”

Jim knew they should take their time, but whenever he slowed down to let Oswald adjust, his lover made his dissatisfaction known, and really, what was Jim supposed to do beside giving him what he wanted, be it his whole heart, this side of the universe, or three fingers? Oswald looked positively glorious as he rode his fingers, his features contorted in a heady mix of concentration and pleasure, that Jim forgot about his own situation to better focus on his fingers, curling them just right to hear more of those breathy sounds, a maddening litany of _Oh James, so good, God yes, just like that_. His wrist was tiring but he didn’t care; he could spend the whole night pleasuring his lover in such an intimate way…

… or not, since Oswald was pushing his hand away and taking hold of Jim’s cock, demanding the lube, and Jim found himself handing him the tube before he’d made the conscious decision to move, struggling to keep still as the tight ring of Oswald’s hand ran up and down his length, slicking it generously.

“You want this even more than I do. You are so hard for me, Captain.” Oswald thumbed at the wet glans, voice pitched a little high, as if he couldn’t believe the words coming out of his own mouth. “Every single night you dream of us fucking, and in the morning, you still wish to fill me up until I scream your name.”

Jim fisted both of his hands in the sheets, back arched as heat enveloped the first half of his cock. “God, you’ve got a dirty mouth, Oz.” He thought he heard the sound of torn fabric somewhere. “I want you so much,” he added between pants, admitting to the truth without a lick of shame. “You’re so pretty, so brilliant, you’re _you_\- Slow down, damn it, you’ll-”

The rest of his protest devolved into a helpless groan as Oswald’s ass cheeks met with his crotch. God, Oswald felt so good (but he was so tight), and he was already moving.

“Your leg-”

I don’t bloody care,” Oswald panted, and set to fuck himself at a steady pace.

Jim gritted his teeth. Most days, getting Oswald to change his mind felt like ordering the Earth to spin the other way around. Not that he could throw stones, but still. “I don’t want you to-” God, his lover didn’t help him at all, bouncing on his cock like that, long fingers teasing his own nipples, nails scrapping over the taut buds surrounded by gooseflesh. “-don’t want… to hurt you."

“You’re not,” Oswald gasped hotly, and his eyes were so dark in spite of the thinning opaque veil over the pupils that Jim, for a moment, was reminded of the roots of Oswald’s powers. Of his power, period.

The one he held over the city.

The one he wielded over him, since the beginning and until their end, together.

“Okay.” He left his hands where they were. He, too, could hold his own. “All right. Just tell me if… if I can do something to-”

“Just- ah, get your back into it and fuck me, James Gordon.”

Lust exploded behind his eyes. With a visceral grunt, he bent his knees and did precisely what Oswald had asked, pumping his hips upwards. “God,” he ground out, using Oswald’s distraction to take even more of his weight. “You feel so fucking good.”

“S-So does your cock,” Oswald moaned, clawing at Jim’s shoulders. “Yes, do this again, _yes_, right here!”

Jim adjusted his aim to nail the same spot again. A wanton groan rewarded him, so he kept the angle he’d found, dragging the underside of his cock over that sensitive bundle of nerves again and again, praising the sensual sight bestowed upon him.

“So. Fucking. Pretty.” And Oswald was pretty, the prettiest man in the world, all the more so without a stitch on, riding Jim’s cock like the world would end if he ever stopped. Jim had never witnessed a full-body blush before, but he was sure as hell drinking in the exception now, considering the difference in taste, wondering if the buttocks matched, and how he could convince Oswald to lie on his front for him to find out.

Later, he told himself. When Oswald was all pliant, neither bark nor bite, happily sated, Jim could probably move him around as he pleased. Had he gotten eaten out before? Jim’s mouth filled with saliva at the thought of his lover sitting on his face and fucking himself on his tongue. With time, Oswald would probably grow bold enough to spread his asscheeks and rub his delicious little hole all over Jim’s lips, demanding to be pleasured, fucked by his tongue. Serviced.

Perhaps when he realized that Jim didn’t mind being used like that.

When it became clear to him that Jim _liked_ being called a whore (or reduced to one), under the right circumstances, by the right person.

"James-"

"That's it," he purred. "God, you're perfect."

Oswald was so fucking light. It was the easiest thing in the world to move him back and forth on his cock. His own hands seemed so big, where they cupped his buttocks, and his eyes traveled upwards, settled on the bony flanks he’d caressed earlier, and he couldn’t help but picture something else covering his lover’s ribs, something of the finest quality with genuine boning, not the cheap plastic things that bent out of shape so easily.

The corset would be blue, to bring out Oswald’s eyes. Laced on the sides so that Jim could still feel that velvety skin in between the black ribbons. Taut enough for Oswald to keep his back straight and give Jim an easy access to his throat, but not enough that he couldn’t breathe easily. He never wanted Oswald to suffer in his fantasies.

He just wanted to dress him in silk at some point, and lick him through a pair of fancy panties he could tear at will to better stuff his mouth full of Oswald’s cock.

“J-James..."

Jim’s hand flew to Oswald’s bad leg. “Yes, baby?” He dug his fingers around the most painful area, right under the knee. “You close?”

Oswald must be, because he only whimpered ‘harder’. Not quite sure to what he was referring, Jim injected more strength into both his thrusts and the massage.

Oswald’s hips stuttered, and Jim could hear blood rushing in his ears. His own balls were tightening. “Oh _yes_, you are close, baby.”

“S-Shut up.”

“Love you too.”

That was all he could say; everything else was superfluous. How could he possibly speak, let alone think, when Oswald rode him with such abandon? He’d never felt such pleasure, and he’d laid with more people than he should have (suspected that Oswald, on the other hand, hadn’t had enough). Bliss saturated his blood, stronger than alcohol, addictive in its own right. As soon as Oswald climaxed (on his cock alone, without a single touch to his own erection, _fuck_), Jim spilled himself with a howl, coating those spasming walls with what felt like gallons of cum.

Holy fucking shit.

He tried to catch his breath, but even the daze brought about by the sudden rush of ecstasy didn’t dim his desire to take Oswald’s softening cock into his mouth. He felt tired to the bone, and yet he’d be on his knees blowing the smaller man in an instant if only to taste his pre-cum as his gorgeous cock filled out once more…

Perhaps Oswald would be willing to switch roles later on?

Or maybe he’d be content to spend the next hour in bed, Jim’s arms around him?

God, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt such elation. And it wasn’t just the sex, far from it.

It was Oswald’s hot breath against his throat, his body lying limp on top of his; the trust Oswald had in him. The hint of a smile he could feel in his skin, where Oswald’s face was buried. It was his love for him, blooming without restraints.

It was seeing Oswald, through senses beyond sight, standing out in the light after an eternity of darkness.

Lips ghosted over his throat, still curled upwards. “I can tell you’re ginning.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Jim replied airily, and hugged Oswald fiercely. There was not a peep of protest. “Your sight is coming back to you, we just made love, and nobody called in a murder today.”

“Not yet,” Oswald drawled.

But his smile, the light in Jim’s life, stayed on.


End file.
